Recipe for Redemption Page 2

  “Abby, Matilda’s going to have a coronary when she hears about this,” Lori whispered once Jay Corwin was out of earshot. “She almost went on strike the last time you tried to cook spaghetti and over-boiled the sauce so it erupted like a volcano.”

  “If you don’t tell her,” Abby singsonged with a sweet smile as her face went hotter than the oven she’d been battling. She’d never understood how things got away from her so fast. “Then we don’t have to worry, do we?”

  “Uh-huh.” Lori grinned, an expression that lit up her face as they returned to the desk. “I’d ask if this is the last time you plan to burn down the Flutterby, but now that you’re attracting men who look as if they’ve modeled for a firefighters’ calendar, I might start giving you my old matchbook collection.”

  “Not funny,” Abby said. “I didn’t think breakfast and dinner were going to be a problem.”

  “You had a good plan. Matilda’s replacement didn’t have any way of knowing his brother was going to die, and it’s not like Butterfly Harbor is brimming with competent cooks.”

  Butterfly Harbor wasn’t brimming with much of anything these days. “We’ll make do,” Abby tried to sound more confident than she felt. She was just going to have to make it work. “Meanwhile, we’ll have to explain the situation to our guests and get by with them eating at the diner. Unless...”

  “Unless what?” Lori’s tone was hesitant.

  “I could call Matilda and ask for some of her best recipes.”

  “Gee, Five-Alarm Manning, I can’t understand why she didn’t do that to start with.”

  “Are you guys really still calling me that?” Abby sighed as she headed to the über-organized registration desk and pushed aside all thoughts of sending out an SOS to Matilda. “Oh, no. What’s this?” She picked up the large metal showerhead.

  “That,” Lori said, “is a showerhead.”

  “Lori—”

  “Room 206. It fell off when I was cleaning the bathtub.”

  “My own fault,” Abby muttered. “I got sidetracked last week and forgot to check the rest of them.” If it wasn’t the showerheads taking suicide drops, it was leaky pipes under sinks or loose floorboards...everywhere. The Flutterby was falling apart, but she was determined to stay ahead of the collapse. She had to. She didn’t have a choice. “Start me a list of any repairs we need to do. I’ll get going on them after I visit Mr. Vartebetium.” The Flutterby’s owner had been in the hospital for several days now. Her fingers throbbed. It was all she could do not to run back to the kitchen and stick her hand in the freezer. “How are we coming on the reservations?”

  “Working on them now,” Lori told her. “It’s been a while since we’ve had all twelve rooms filled, but we should have everyone’s needs accounted for. That’ll also leave two extra rooms for last-minute arrivals. That producer from the National Cooking Network is a picky one.”

  “New Yorkers,” Abby muttered, casting a glance to her newest arrival, who had taken a seat near the dormant fireplace. “I’m going to check with Matt about helping us get the last rooms in shape so we can have them as well.” The recent Army vet had been doing odd jobs for her around the inn for a while, but his time was more limited now that he’d been hired as one of Sheriff Saxon’s deputies. “It’s going to be a crazy couple of weeks around here,” she said to Lori. “We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

  “We’re ready.”

  Between the organizers of the By the Bay Food Festival and the production crew from the National Cooking Network, not to mention the out-of-town attendees, the Flutterby Inn was poised to be sold out for the first time in over two years. As much work as it was going to be for Abby and her three employees, it was their opportunity to make the Flutterby Inn shine in all its aging glory. And hopefully make a profit for their bedridden boss. “Nothing like going from a drought to a flood when it comes to guests.” Abby inclined her head toward where their new guest sipped his coffee.

  “We’re in good shape. Besides, he paid for his reservation up front, so we can’t exactly kick him out. I gave him the tower room, if that’s okay? Kind of suits his knight-on-a-white-horse persona, don’t you think?” Lori leaned her chin on her hand.

  “The tower’s fine.” Abby ignored the question from the ever-romantic Lori along with the implication. Knight or not, she did not have the time or energy to invest in romance, no matter what her struggling online dating persona or her well-intentioned employee thought. Not that Jay Corwin was remotely her type. She liked her potential romantic partners to have fewer sharp edges to them. This guy was more prickly than a spiny jellyfish. “That leaves us with, what? Four guest rooms occupied through this weekend?” Lori nodded. Good. Not too much upkeep then, and at least two rooms would be vacated by the following week. “I’m going to drop Gran off at Eloise’s for the day and then head over to see Mr. Vartebetium. I’ll stop at the diner and pick up lunch. What do you want?”

  “One of Holly’s strawberry shakes would be heaven.” Lori sighed, then looked down at her significant waistline hidden behind a full flowing skirt and oversize sweater. “But better make it a turkey on whole wheat. No fries.”

  What Abby wanted to do was remind the younger woman that depriving herself wouldn’t help, but she didn’t want to force Lori off the healthier bandwagon. Her friend’s confidence had begun to climb and she’d even treated herself to a cut and color at the Bee Hive to tame her once brown, now nutmeg-highlighted brown curls. “You’re doing great, Lori. Losing thirty pounds is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “It’s the next thirty that has me worried. I’ll hold down the fort, don’t worry.”

  “Paige said to keep her on speed dial if we need extra help.” But with her friend doing extra shifts at the diner, Abby didn’t think it right to ask her to man the kitchen at the Flutterby as well. Not that Abby could afford to anyway, not with the way the business’s finances were stretched these days. Not having an in-house cook was proving to be more of an issue than she’d anticipated. And it was only going to get worse with the influx of guests they were expecting.

  She’d find a solution. She always did. She’d do anything to keep the Flutterby Inn running. It was the only home Gran had ever really known, and Abby wasn’t about to have Alice spend her twilight years anywhere else. Especially now.

  Abby rifled through one of her drawers for the stack of meal vouchers for the Butterfly Diner. “I’m going to make sure our resident fireman is all set before I go.”

  “I’d say I saw him first,” Lori said, “but you one-upped me with that fire of yours.”

  “It wasn’t a full-blown fire.” But it could have been. Gran was right. When was she going to learn her lesson? She and kitchens did not mix. Abby took a steeling breath and carried the vouchers over to their new guest, who was flipping through one of the anemic local tour books. “Mr. Cor—er, Jay?”

  “Should I stay on alert for the duration of my stay, Five-Alarm Manning?” He didn’t bother to look up from the booklet.

  My, what big ears you have. She would not let him bait her. She couldn’t afford to alienate paying—and from what she could tell, incredibly flush—guests. Some people, like this man, exuded money. “I’m afraid you’ve discovered my one weakness.”

  “Kitchens are dangerous for those not properly trained.” The superiority in his voice obliterated the last of Abby’s goodwill.

  “Yes, I heard you the first time.” Why did he make her sound as if she was a rambunctious five-year-old who’d dumped a container of flour all over her head? She bit her cheek. She could tell her guest she’d been trying to save some money, that scones couldn’t possibly be that difficult, that she hadn’t wanted her guests to have to trudge to the diner. Or she could do as she’d done for the last seven years and keep her tongue in check to make sure her customers—even Mr. Jay Corwin—were happy.

 
“Since the kitchen is closed for the next couple of weeks—” she offered up a silent prayer that Matilda would return sooner than planned “—and your rate includes breakfast and either lunch or dinner, we’re offering free meals to our customers down at the Butterfly Diner. I think you’ll agree that’s best while my cook is on vacation.”

  “You don’t have a backup cook?” He frowned at her over the top of his coffee cup.

  “We did. Matilda walked him through the paces before she left, but then his brother passed away. He had to fly back to Michigan.”

  “There’s no one else available?”

  “It took us weeks to find him. Besides, Matilda would throw a fit if someone she didn’t know came in to work her kitchen.” It was a joke. Kind of.

  “You allow her to take time off and leave you high and dry during what could be a busy couple of months for you? Doesn’t seem very responsible to me.”

  He couldn’t have sounded any more judgmental if he’d banged a gavel on the sink. Life happened. And sometimes it had a cruel sense of timing. “Tell you what. If you’re here when Matilda returns, feel free to let her know her annual long-distance breast cancer awareness fund-raising walk isn’t smart business sense.” So much for holding her tongue. “In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your stay. The diner opens every morning at six and what stores there are on Monarch Lane will open between nine and ten. If you have any questions or need assistance, let Lori know. She’s more than up to the task, I’m sure.”

  Either he missed her sarcasm or he didn’t care.

  “Are the grounds around the inn open to guests?”

  “Yes. There’s a path down to the beach off the front parking lot. And if you give the Butterfly Diner a call ahead of time, Holly can make a nice lunch for you to pick up. Thank you again,” she added before she pushed open the door. “I’m sorry your first few minutes at the Flutterby were distressing.”

  “Interesting, though.” Jay gave her what could have been interpreted as a smile. Such a shift from his earlier manner confounded Abby. “Have a good day, Miss Manning.”

  “Abby,” she responded automatically, then, before she started to think better of him, headed off to collect Gran.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WELL?” GARY CUNNINGHAM’S aged New York voice echoed through the Bluetooth as Jason hefted his suitcase and garment bag out of the trunk of the rented sports car. “Do I know how to find you the perfect hideaway or what?”

  “It’s definitely something.” He’d spend some time later appreciating the lush landscaping that included thick, healthy red geraniums interspersed with critter-repelling oleander. He could hear the surf crashing against the shore and cliff line on the far edge of the property and smell that telltale Pacific Ocean combination of brine and open air. Nothing like an old three-story Victorian with beacon-bright yellow paint and peeling white trim to cut through the intricate groves of redwoods, cypress and eucalyptus trees. If the rest of the world ran out of oxygen, he knew where they could find some. “Hang on a second?”

  The porch stairs creaked in welcome as he pushed through the etched glass front doors and gave Lori a quick wave of acknowledgment. He walked across hardwood floors in need of a polish, passing crisp white batten-board walls that displayed photographs of the inn throughout its extensive history. They provided a welcome distraction from the faded, out-of-date wallpaper.

  At least he hadn’t been inundated with the town’s fluttering namesake. Not that he had anything against butterflies, but they did lend themselves toward a feminine aspect he didn’t relate to. The creatures were so dainty, so delicate, like those lacy pastry swans he’d never mastered in culinary school, but at the same time butterflies were known to weather the most violent of hurricanes.

  Reminded him of his current hostess, Abby Manning. He certainly wouldn’t want to be a smoke detector in her presence. He tried to remember the last time anyone had surprised him. He unlocked his door.

  Speaking of surprises...

  The room was larger than he’d anticipated. He set his bags down on the feather duvet–covered California king situated amid a dresser, nightstands and a sizable flat-screen TV. The decor wasn’t fancy but lent itself to practicality while skirting the far edge of stylish. The ceiling angled up from the walls into a point that he identified as the side tower that had poked into the horizon as he’d crossed into town.

  “Okay,” he said and heard the familiar rustle of papers and files as he spoke to his family’s longtime lawyer and his personal confidant. Part mentor, part father figure, it was Gary he’d turned to over the years when it became clear his own father would remain emotionally unavailable. “So why did you pick this place?”

  “Figured you had to be tired of four-star hotels and room service,” Gary chuckled. “And the fresh air is a bonus.”

  “It seems Butterfly Harbor has plenty of that.” Definitely not four star. He fingered the clean yet old-fashioned curtains draping the French doors to a small terrace. Three stars, maybe.

  Pushing open the French doors, he stared out into the vastness of the Pacific crashing against the shoreline below. Even in mid-July, a chill coated the morning air, but that was the California coast for you: unpredictable yet peacefully welcoming.

  The deep ocean breath he took eroded some of the tension in his body. He should have come here straight from New York. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost forget...

  “Do you think you were followed this time?” Gary asked in that borderline boisterous tone a 1920s gangster might have used.

  “No.” He’d left Los Angeles in the dead of night. He’d have noticed if he’d been tailed. Besides, there hadn’t been a car in sight for the mile and a half after he’d taken the Butterfly Harbor turnoff. “No sign of any reporters or cameras. I might finally be in the clear now that I stopped using my credit cards. Thanks for getting me in here so quickly.” Not that booking a reservation would have been a problem.

  “You call, I answer. Keeping you off the radar until you’re ready to come back is what’s important,” Gary said. “So are you going to ask?”

  “About Corwin Brothers?” Jason’s stomach tightened into familiar knots as they fell into the months-old conversation about his family business. His former family business. “I don’t know how many ways I can say it. I’m done with all of it. The board of directors made that perfectly clear when they ousted me as chairman.” And that was after the National Cooking Network pulled his show off the air, the restaurant chain deal went into the toilet and his publisher decided to “wait awhile” on a new cookbook offer. The fact he’d lost all passion for the business, for the kitchen, for anything, really, since his brother, David, had died only added to his surrender.

  “They ousted you because your father took advantage of your grief. He sold the board on the idea of a discount frozen food line when they couldn’t think straight, and now it’s tanking the company. This can’t sit right with you, Jason. Your father’s lack of understanding for what your grandfather wanted to build is the reason he left the company to you in the first place, and now what? You’re going to let Edward swoop in and kill what’s left?”

  “You’re forgetting that it was my mistake that started this slide to begin with.” No, he didn’t like the idea his father was in charge. Edward Corwin was a cold, calculating and profit-driven man—he always had been. And he’d never forgiven the fact he’d been ignored in his father’s will. Jason leaned his arms on the railing and ducked his head. Frozen food. Discounted frozen food. Made with the cheapest ingredients from who knew what sources. Gary was right. It was a slap in the face to everything he and David had stood for, everything their grandfather had begun.

  But Jason had sabotaged any hope of fighting his father and his arrogance and lack of sense. He didn’t have any fight left in him. His brother’s death had left him struggling
. Depressed. Empty.

  These days, Jason wasn’t even sure if he was trying to escape the mess he’d made of his life...or himself.

  “Sometimes I can’t breathe, I miss David so much.”

  Like now, when there was more air than he knew what to do with and he still couldn’t manage. It had been six months, and still, not an hour, not a minute passed when Jason didn’t feel as if a part of him had died with his twin brother. His best friend. His anchor.

  Jason wasn’t supposed to be here without him.

  He didn’t know how to be here without him.

  Jason scrubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck. If only he’d gotten on that plane with David like he was supposed to. If only he hadn’t insisted on working late at the restaurant. Instead, he’d begged off the business trip that was meant to get the ball rolling on a deal that would have put JD’s restaurants in dozens of Lansing hotels around the country. David could handle it, Jason had told him hours before the crash. He didn’t need Jason and his acerbic attitude getting in the way of a potentially life-changing deal that would take them to the next level. The world had been opening up. Finally.

  If only. If only...

  Now everything they’d planned, everything they wanted was gone, and not only because David was. Because Jason had made mistake after mistake after mistake ever since.

  Even now, six months later, his father wasn’t letting anyone forget about David’s death or Jason’s fall from the pinnacle of culinary success. The added Edward Corwin spin on the truth had kept the media far more interested than they should have been, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Whenever attention or headlines began to wane, his father gave yet another interview, another turn on the tragic loss of his son and the disgrace his surviving son had become. Somehow Edward had become the family martyr while Jason had done what he could to disappear.

  Driving cross-country had helped, a little. Chopping off his trademark long hair and growing a beard, a little more. But Jason had never learned how to blend into a crowd. He hadn’t had to, because David had always been by his side, guiding him, supporting him.